


Trouble Wears a Red Dress

by Kithri



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noir AU - Kalinda is a PI in 1940s Chicago, when trouble walks in through the front door, wearing a red dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble Wears a Red Dress

I knew the dame was trouble as soon as she walked in the door.

Nobody wears a dress like *that* -- cleavage cut to *here*, skirt slit up to *there*; the devil's own colour, the deep crimson of sin itself -- unless they want attention.

And a woman used to that kind of attention...

Like I said: trouble.

And that was before I found out who her husband was.

 

The day started out the same as any other. I woke up in my office. Again. The (damned early) morning greeted me with the usual dawn chorus. The steady patter of rain against my windows. The drip-drip-drip where it came through the roof and into the bucket that was the nearest my landlord was likely to get to fixing the leak. The roar of tyres on cracked tarmac and the occasional blare of horns. Raised voices and slammed doors from somewhere on one of the floors blow.

The incongruous lowing of cattle from the slaughterhouses down the street.

When I first set up here, I thought I'd never get used to that sound. City girl like me, this was the closest I'd come to Mother Nature. Couldn't say as I was a fan.

But it turned out, you could get used to (almost) anything if you're stubborn enough.

If you were desperate enough.

And nowadays, I hardly noticed the animal noises any more. Even on the slaughtering days, when the screams of the dead and dying filled the air like a chorus of the damned. And, if the breeze was in the wrong (right) direction you could scent the salt-iron tang of blood on the wind.

On the plus side, the ambiance was great for when I needed (wanted) to make a point and the rent was cheap.

So were the clientele it attracted, of course, but I supposed I couldn't have everything.

All in all, it suited my needs just fine.

 

The battered leather of my chair creaked beneath me as I stretched, hissing out more air from its already too-flat-to-be-comfortable padding. I made a mental note to go scouring the streets near the office blocks to see if I could find a new one. 

Well, new to me at any rate. Just like this one had been.

I preferred to think of it as 'broken in'.

My desk was 'vintage,' the scars and dents artfully concealed by strategically placed papers and nick-nacks. The chair I kept for clients was 'weathered' and the filing cabinet was... Well, the filing cabinet was junk, but two out of three drawers would open and close with only the minimum application of force.

Anyway, it's not like my caseload really needed me to have more than two drawers. I'd barely even filled one.

Turned out that even in the land of opportunity, people were reluctant to hire a 'lady PI.' Especially one with my dusky complexion.

Even if, to put it in the local vernacular, 'I ain't no lady.'

Still, I got by.

More or less.

 

My neck twinged, reminding me why I kept promising myself I wasn't going to fall asleep at my desk any more, that I would *make* myself stumble the few steps from my desk to my bedroom no matter how exhausted (drunk) I was. I swore it again, as I clambered stiffly to my feet.

(I knew it wouldn't take, though. Some promises never do.)

I filled the kettle from the bucket on the floor -- the tap over the tiny sink next to the draining board was broken again -- and tidied up a bit as I waited for the water to boil.

As I dropped last night's empty bottles into the trash, I thought about opening up a fresh one to add a bit of a kick to my morning coffee.

I decided not to.

(Somedays I decided the other way. Somedays I just flipped a coin, letting Lady Luck -- fickle vixen that she was -- guide my steps. Today... Today, I had a hunch that I was going to need a little clarity.)

(Knowing what I knew now... The jury was still out on that one. Maybe things would have gone better if I'd been a little fuzzy around the edges.) 

(Maybe not, but it couldn't have gone much worse.)

Besides, the way I made my coffee -- black as my soul and almost thick enough for the spoon to stand up in -- it kicked plenty all by itself.

I tipped the ashtray into the plant-pot on my windowsill, rearranging the leaves of the bedraggled begonia in a vain attempt to make it seem like it wasn't halfway dead.

(I remembered reading somewhere that ash made good fertiliser. I figured it had to be worth a shot, and god knew Betty needed something other than rainwater and coffee grounds.)

(Yeah, I called my plant Betty. So?)

What could I say? Some people had green thumbs. I... didn't.

(The plant had already seen better days when I found it smashed on the pavement outside the building. I figured it had been a casualty of another one of Roxy and Leo's fights. She's a hooker; he was one of her johns. He fell in love with her and they've kind of got a thing going on. I could've told them it was a bad idea but, hey, not my business. So, they fight. He yells, she throws things. Girl's got a mean throwing arm; could've pitched for the Yankees.)

(Looks like poor Betty was just another victim of their passion.)

(Anyway, it looked so forlorn, and I needed something to cheer up the office a little, so I rescued it. Sort of.)

(Frankly, I was kind of shocked it'd survived this long.)

 

I took my coffee over to the window, staring up at the steel-grey Chicago sky without really seeing it as I mentally reviewed my list of things to do. It didn't take me long. The list was a short one, mostly consisting of 'get paid' and 'find more cases.'

I'd just about wrapped up one case -- a straightforward job from a wife worried that her husband was sleeping around. (He was.) Once Mrs Carson actually coughed up what she owed me, I'd be able to pay this month's rent; maybe even buy some food instead of hitting up a soup kitchen or sweet-talking Manny for leftovers from the Grill.

(It was really called Joe's Grill, but there hadn't been a Joe in residence since way before I came to town. Folks round here mostly just called it 'The Grill.')

Movement across the street caught my eye. Looked like someone was finally replacing the weathered movie poster on the billboard on top of the building opposite. I felt an unexpected pang at the thought. I'd gotten used to seeing Rita Hayworth's sultry eyes and pouting red lips up above me, adding a touch of glamour to the otherwise grim and grimy view.

(It was actually one of the reasons I'd chosen this office in the first place.)

I watched the men work as I drank my coffee, seeing Rita's bounteous curves replaced by a stern male face and an exhortation to 'Re-elect State's Attorney Peter Florrick in '48.'

For some reason, that made me laugh, the sound as bitter as my coffee.

I hadn't exactly been keeping track of local politics. It was a little above my pay grade. But maybe I should have been paying attention. I did wonder if I should expect another 'friendly' visit from Big Frank, or Little Tony, or any one of the other ironically named 'gentlemen' on Florrick's payroll, come to bestow another polite reminder of the virtue of silence.

Maybe it was time I got out of town for a little while. Just until the dust settled.

 

Draining the dregs of my coffee, I set the mug in the sink and went to get washed and changed. It didn't take me long. The lack of hot water in the tiny bathroom tended to discourage lingering baths, and I had precious few outfits to choose between.

Which reminded me: I really needed to do some laundry. Maybe I could smile sweetly at Mrs Scoletti, the landlord's wife, to let me do it at her place. At the moment, I didn't even have the change to spare for the laundromat.

But I'd worry about that later. Right now, I had some money to collect.

I peered into the cracked, warped mirror, reaching for the box containing my precious, meagre store of cosmetics. My warpaint. A touch of lipstick, a brush of rouge. A little mascara, even though it was hardly necessary with my eyelashes.

I might not be a lady, but it was sometimes useful to remind certain people that I was a woman.

When I was satisfied with the result, I shrugged into my trenchcoat -- the one item of *his* I'd still hung onto all this time -- and settled my hat on my head, tilting it at a jaunty angle.

*Now* I was ready to face the world.

The only question was: was the world ready for me?

 

The sun was setting as I shut the door behind me and hung up my coat and hat. I debated whether or not to slip off my boots, but decided to leave them on. Most of my clients tended to stop by at night, and it wouldn't look good for them to see me in stockinged feet.

Besides, I'd gotten rather used to the added height.

It had been a fairly productive day, all told. I'd actually managed to get paid, albeit not as much as I was owed. Mrs Carson had sworn she could scrape up the rest in another couple of weeks but, softhearted fool that I was, I'd called it even at what she had so far. It was just...

(The way she refused to cry, even though the bad news just about tore her heart out. The way she drew her pride around herself like armour. The way she was planning to confront the cheating rat, even though I could see the fear in her eyes. The fear that she was going to lose everything. The fear that she was setting out into uncharted territory, not knowing what lay ahead of her, only what lay behind.)

(I'd seen that look before.)

(Long ago and far away.)

(I'd seen it gazing back at me in the mirror.)

So I told her we were square, despite the way she'd tried to insist she wanted to pay her debt in full. And I'd given her a couple of names -- Vicky at the shelter, Cassandra in the soup kitchen -- who might be able to help her, if she didn't know where else to turn. Her voice was a little stiff when she told me she had family; a sister.

But she took the scrap of paper I tore out of my notebook, the one that told her how to find them. And she tucked it away safe and sound.

There wasn't anything else I could do for her.

As well as getting the money, I'd chased up a couple of leads on another ongoing case -- missing person -- and had a meeting that might lead to a job sometime soon. Information retrieval. Some spying. If it panned out, I'd need to go undercover for a while.

Nothing new for me, but it did tend to cut into getting new custom.

 

I'd just finished stashing my money beneath the loose floorboard under my desk (what? it's not like I trusted the banks) and was contemplating whether to toast the fact that I probably wouldn't be getting evicted this month, when there was a knock at the door.

My eyes automatically scanned the room, checking up on my escape routes (clear) and the presence of anything I didn't want anyone else to see (clean). I settled myself in my seat, pulling a random file from the stack in my in-tray and flipping it open in front of me.

"Come in."

The door opened slowly, giving me plenty of time to look my visitor up and down.

(Wow.)

Now, *that* was a lady.

Gleaming, mahogany hair that curled gently around her shoulders. Delicately arched eyebrows over intense chocolate-brown eyes. Plump, red-painted lips every bit as sensual as the ones just recently papered over on the billboard outside.

I'd thought I was a dab hand with my warpaint, but this woman? She was an artist. A touch of colour here and there as an accent, emphasising and accentuating, but never, ever overshadowing. It was flawless.

Perfect.

(I was in awe.)

And the artistry continued with her clothes. She wore a charcoal grey fur coat that probably cost more than I made in a year. As she stepped through the door into my office, she opened it to reveal a slinky little red dress that was clung in all the right places.

(I envied it.)

Sheer stockings shimmered over her long, lithe legs, and on her feet were high-heeled red pumps that would almost have given *me* pause before slipping them on.

Almost.

She paused mid-stride when she saw me, glanced back to check the name on the door, and then turned back to me with one eyebrow raised.

"Karl Shaw, PI?" she murmured. "You don't look like a Karl Shaw..."

Her voice matched her appearance, low and smoky, sending a shiver all the way along my spine.

I met her gaze coolly, used to keeping my feelings from my face.

(Although she made it more of a challenge than usual.)

"Maybe I'm his secretary," I replied, matching her tone.

Her lips quirked in a smile, her eyes glinting in a way that suddenly made me absolutely certain that this woman was Trouble. "You're not a secretary."

It was definitely a statement, not a question.

I tilted my head, looking at her in a way that had made grown men squirm before now. 

It didn't faze her in the slightest. 

I shrugged, intrigued despite myself.

"Kalinda Sharma, Private Investigator." I couldn't help a smile of my own as I added: "At your service."

That seemed to be the cue she was waiting for. Closing the door behind her, she sashayed over to my desk.

"May I sit?"

"Please do." I gestured towards the client's chair, for once wishing that I'd at least added a coat of paint, or some varnish or something. She wrinkled her nose a little, but sat down without complaint. "Would you care for some refreshments?" I asked. "Tea, coffee? Something a little stronger?"

"No thank you, I'm fine," she said politely. "But could I please trouble you for a light?"

She reached into the small clutch purse I really should have noticed she was holding (careless) and drew out a long-handled cigarette-holder and a silver cigarette case. (Solid silver, I was willing to bet; not just silver plating.) As she placed a cigarette in the holder, I pushed the ash tray towards her and pulled my battered lighter from my pocket. I held it out to her, but rather than taking it from me, she simply leaned forward, eyebrows raised expectantly. (Challengingly?)

I shrugged mentally and lit her cigarette, meeting her gaze the whole while. 

(Tempting though it was to let my eyes drift downwards, just a little. But it wouldn't have been at all professional. And I was always professional.)

(Except when I really, really wasn't.)

We both leaned back in our seats.

"So, what can I do for you," my eyes flicked to her immaculately manicured left hand, "Mrs..?"

I let my voice trail off, inviting her to fill in the space; to tell me who she was. The wedding ring came as no surprise. Woman who looked like her, who dressed like her... There was bound to be a man in the picture, somewhere.

The thing of it was, there was something about her, something familiar. I was sure I'd seen her somewhere before. I just couldn't remember where.

Her lips twisted in something that was almost, but not quite, a wry smile, and she sighed softly before she answered.

"I'm sure you've heard of my husband already," she said distantly. "It's Florrick. Mrs Alicia Florrick."

Oh.

Well.

That explained it.

Fortunately, my instincts were perfectly capable of taking over while I reeled mentally, trying to work out angles and agendas, keeping my expression unruffled and simply repeating my question.

"What can I do for you, Mrs Florrick?"

She glanced down, taking a delicate pull on her cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring before pinning me with her eyes.

"I think someone is trying to kill me."

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly random inspiration. I might follow it up at a later date, when I've got a bit further in Angels, if there's enough interest.


End file.
